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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.

William Wordsworth

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William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
Lyricist
Poet
Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
Regions
Main
Song
Mind
Men
Haunt
Thinking
Region
Humankind
Thoughtful

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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.
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A tale in everything.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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